


Loose Thread

by fushifantasy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M, not based on any mythology in particular - at least not intentionally lol, this is another one of those style experiments i do, which is to say no one asked for me to do it this way but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 04:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19940572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushifantasy/pseuds/fushifantasy
Summary: The tale of an unusually earnest god and an extraordinarily insolent mortal; or, the source of minor miracles.





	Loose Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Magnus Archives Creation Challenge round 2. This month's theme was mythology; my prompt was "fate."

Long ago, when the world was still whole and hardly known, there was a young god who could pull the threads of fate.

His name was Martin, and his task—mainly because he was the only one who could be bothered—was to trace the complex trajectories of mortal existence and bring any matters of note to the attention of more significant gods. He had not the power nor permission to alter the fates himself, not really—but the gods had little care for mortal fortunes, and even less interest in Martin. So if he gave the occasional tug in a promising direction or subtly wove two threads together when someone looked as if they could use a friend, no one took any notice.

It was a lot of work for one god, let alone one with little experience and less authority, and Martin often wished he could do more. But he tried his best, and for some time, that was enough.

One day, however, as he teased a few strands from humanity’s web, he noticed a fate so dark and dismal that it couldn’t possibly be right. It hurt his heart just to see it. So he left his little home at the edge of the center of the world, and descended down, down, down to where all of the more important (and commensurately haughtier) gods dwelt. Surely they would help, he thought. Surely they would change this, if only they knew.

They would not.

“But this is _cruel_ ,” Martin protested, “A life of painful tribulation to end in a meaningless death, and he’ll never even get the answers he seeks? All over a bit of—of curiosity?”

“That,” said the god of order, holding up their hand to silence him, “is the way of things. To know the world is a god’s lot; for a mortal it is folly.”

“If you think this an aberration,” remarked the god of chaos, “it is only because rarely does a mortal ask so _very_ many questions.”

Thus dismissed, Martin climbed back up, and up, and up, still clutching the end of the thread in his hand. And as he walked, he thought of the mortal, who could not possibly realize how much danger he was in. Who had no one to take his hand and guide him to safety.

Martin came to the edge of the center of the world, and a decision. He would change this fate himself.

He kept walking.

He walked until he found the mortal, a young man by the name of Jon, teetering at the edge of a canyon.

“Did the land _crack_ here?” he was muttering, “Or is it something to do with the river?” He leaned a bit further over the precipice, craning his neck to see, “And why—”

Martin grabbed the back of his tunic and hauled him backward.

“Stop that,” he commanded. “You mustn’t go looking for the secrets of the world.”

Jon gave him a look of annoyance. And then he asked, in a way that sounded very unlike a question and very much like a demand,

" _Why?"_

It was at this point that it occurred to Martin that this might not be so easy a task as he had anticipated. But he had all the time in the world. He could answer this question.

So Martin told Jon that knowledge was the gods’ domain. He told him that it wasn’t safe to tread wheresoever he may please. That some things were kept hidden for a reason, and that he would get hurt trying to uncover them. That he might _die_. (Mortals were aware of their mortality, yes?)

Jon only scoffed at this. He _scoffed_ , and waved his hand as if Martin were an irritating fly.

Now, in fairness, Martin had not introduced himself as a god—he wasn’t meant to be altering fates, after all—so Jon couldn’t have known how insolent he was being. Still...that was rather rude, wasn’t it? 

Martin wondered if he ought to point this out. But by then, Jon had already wandered back to the lip of canyon, searching for a way down, and he could only follow.

Martin followed Jon for a long time.

He followed him through the canyon, to discover where it led. When they reached the top of a towering waterfall, Jon lost his balance and nearly plummeted over the drop, but Martin caught his wrist and tugged him back to the safety of the riverbank. Sodden and irritable, Jon asked him who he was. But he did not answer, for he had his own secrets to keep.

He followed him into a howling storm, to seek whence it came. And when he pulled him under a low shelf of rock against the lashing rain and arcing lightning, he begged him to stop trying to see these things and know their secrets. But Jon only glared at him, and marched back out into the downpour.

He followed him deep into a close-grown forest, to find where no one had ever set foot before. And each time they bent to observe brightly colored blooms or small creatures in their dens, Jon asked Martin who he was, and where he had come from. But he still did not answer, for if his presence was unwelcome now, how much more so would it be if Jon knew he was one of the selfsame gods who would deny him the knowledge he sought?

He followed him across the soft sands of a beach at sunset, to learn of the rising of the tide. He watched Jon stand there amid the waves until they came up to his chin, and though Martin felt a surge of panic as he gave a little yelp and went under, afterward, he found that he could only laugh and offer to teach him how to swim.

He followed him to a volcano, to watch destruction beget creation—and wrapped both arms around him to prevent him getting too close. Later, as he tied a clean cloth around the hand Jon had cut on a piece of obsidian that “was rather sharper than it looked,” apparently, Jon was silent for a long time. Then he asked something that could have been a demand, had the hesitance in his voice not marked it so clearly a question,

“Why do you care?”

But Martin did not answer that, either, for his reasons were no longer what they once had been.

Instead, he followed him to a city, to hear the stories of its people. It was not so very different from what Martin had done before—only it was, because Jon was there. Martin liked it better this way, and wished that they did not have to leave. But they could not stay, for Jon still had not learned what he needed to know.

So he followed him to the top of a mountain, to see if they could touch the stars—though if anyone had been watching, it would not have been clear, any longer, who was following whom. And as they sat there, together, it occurred to Martin that Jon had not asked him a question in some time. So he asked one of his own, into the night, and it was Jon’s turn to give no answer.

At last, they came to the edge of the center of the world, to Martin’s home. And when Jon said that he needed to see the gods, to know them for who they were, Martin was not surprised. He was prepared. Because if Jon went down to the heart of the gods’ domain, he would surely die.

Martin could have told Jon that the gods were not worth knowing. That they were foolhardy and selfish. That they did not look, and would never see the beauty in Jon’s curiosity. But the answer Jon sought was not among these truths, so he spoke none of them.

Instead, Martin told Jon of himself. Of who he was, and _what_ he was. Of how he had seen where fate led. And he asked something that was not really a question, but was also not a demand.

“Let me tie your fate to mine, and then you shall not die.”

Jon had listened to all that Martin had to say, but at this, he frowned. Death aside, he wondered, would Martin not share in whatever torments might be visited upon him by the other gods?

Martin did not speak to that, for he knew that Jon could see the truth of it in his eyes. But when Jon asked him _Why?_ , as he always had, he replied.

“I don’t want to lose you.” 

Jon said nothing to this, so Martin extended a hand, not yet understanding what question he had, at long last, answered. Jon stared at it. Then he nodded, and placed his own hand in Martin’s palm.

“Do it.”

So Martin did, weaving the threads together so tightly that they would never, ever come unraveled. And when it was done, he told Jon that they could go. He would take him down to the center of the world, and Jon would know the gods, and they would face the consequences. Together.

But only Jon shook his head, and gave a tug at their linked hands to pull him closer.

“No. I know enough.”

And they went no further toward the center of the world.

But there was no other corner of it that they did not know. In time, it would come to bear the signs of their work—in open doors and silver linings, in unexpected meetings and flashes of inspiration. For Martin taught Jon to read the fates, and Jon taught Martin to question each of them, and they are always, always together.


End file.
